Forlorn Hope
by happycabbage75
Summary: Sam and Dean crash a wedding. Or it might just be the other way around...
1. Chapter 1

**Forlorn Hope**

Summary: Sam and Dean crash a wedding. Or it might just be the other way around…

Disclaimer: Not mine. As if.

_This story is dedicated to my very kind co-worker who deleted the first two chapters while I was on a break. We'll call him... Bob (for purposes of protecting the not-so-innocent). Feel free to smack Bob, should you ever happen to see him. As a result of his actions, this story's ended up a bit longer, so bear with me._

Chapter One

* * *

Sam was looking out the window again.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed and had to grit his teeth to keep from saying anything. Sam had been nearly silent since they'd checked into the hotel and for once Dean knew exactly what was going on in that freaky mind of his brother's. It wasn't like it wasn't written all over his face, like it wasn't so unbelievably obvious that even Dean couldn't pick up on it.

They were staying in a hotel out in the middle of nowhere as usual. It was a small town and it was the only hotel they had. It was more upscale than they were used to, but this was the town where they were supposed to be, so it was this place or sleep in the car.

_You're in luck_, the desk clerk had said. _Only one room left in the whole hotel_. Dean had barely raised an eyebrow. _We're having a wedding tomorrow_. Dean had been too tired to really care. He'd just taken the key and headed for the room.

He cared now though. The hotel was built around a central courtyard and at this moment, out where everyone could see, they were having the wedding rehearsal. Dean could hear the laughing and joking even through the closed door and the moderate soundproofing hotels had. The curtains were closed too. Sam was sitting in a chair just at the edge pretending like he didn't care, yet still peeking out to see what was going on in the courtyard.

Dean had seen the bride earlier. Thankfully, she looked nothing like Jess other than she was Amazon tall. She was dark-haired and not exactly what you'd call a beauty. But she'd been smiling when Dean had seen her. _Glowing_, he supposed was the proper term. It had made a woman who wasn't the prettiest on the block seem something more.

So many happy people. It was kinda freaking him out to be honest. He was used to being around a lot of doom and gloom. He had Sam with him all the time, after all. But the people they dealt with were usually on the exhausted, terrified, horrified end of the emotion scale. He knew what to do with them. Which was usually let Sam deal with them, because… _awkward_.

All the festivity was just making Dean jumpy. Sam, however, was a different story. Loss, longing… Dean could see it written all over him. Jessica. Her name was almost ringing in his ears and for just a second he wondered if he hadn't said her name aloud or if Sam hadn't. But one look at Sam told him that wasn't the case. His brother was still surreptitiously peeking out through the curtains.

Dean tried his cell phone again. The number went straight to voice mail, _again_. The guy who'd asked them to come here still wasn't picking up. Which meant they were still stuck sitting here until the jerk decided to answer his freaking phone.

"You wanna crash the wedding?" Dean asked. "I never turn down free booze."

Sam jumped and guiltily turned back into the room, letting the curtain fall closed. Dean could still hear the laughter filtering in from the courtyard. He had a sudden ludicrous urge to fire a warning shot over their heads. That would certainly shut them up.

"Wedding's tomorrow," Sam said. "This is just the rehearsal."

"That mean no booze?"

Sam laughed, just a tiny puff of air. "I'm sure there'll be some at the rehearsal dinner."

"You think I could talk them into believing we're groomsmen?" Dean asked.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You hiding a tux in that duffel I don't know about?"

"It's in my other bag." Dean stood, unable to sit in the room any longer. He had to get out of this place, at least until after the rehearsal was over. "Come on. Let's go get some dinner."

Sam, too, stood. He turned to the door and Dean saw him hesitate for a moment before he finally twisted the knob. Almost immediately they were bombarded with the increased noise coming from the wedding party. As Dean stepped out he saw the people were all in their places, wearing jeans and casual shirts, going through the motions of the ceremony, but clearly having a blast while they were at it. A few noticed Sam and Dean step out of their room and gave them big smiles, enough happiness that they were glad to share.

Dean put his hands on Sam's shoulders and literally steered him the other way, pushing him toward the car.

* * *

Dean sat back in the booth with a contented sigh. The restaurant was large, but cozy, nothing too fancy or snooty and the waitress was fast and efficient.

Sam still wasn't talking, but at least he was eating. Dean was relieved to see that he'd shrugged off the better part of his depression, a testament to just how long it had been since Jessica's death. It was an old wound now, one that snuck up occasionally to bite when he wasn't really expecting it.

They ate in companionable silence. Sam had something that had an honest to goodness vegetable in it, while Dean was thoroughly enjoying a plate of gravy that might or might not have some meatloaf hiding underneath it.

The door banged open and a group of loud, laughing people began to pour through it. The waitress waved them toward a group of tables that had been pushed together on one side of the restaurant.

The wedding party. Dean cursed himself for being a complete and utter moron. There was only one hotel in town and there was only one restaurant. Of course, they would come here for the rehearsal dinner.

Dean watched as the group of people milled around the tables trying to decide who should sit where. It was a universal truth that the larger the group, the lower the collective IQ. The words _herding instinct_ came to Dean's mind. If something spooked them it could easily turn into _stampede_. It was one of the reasons Dean avoided large groups if he could.

The people stood and debated long enough that even the friendly waitress was starting to just point people toward seats to get them going. Dean didn't envy the waitress. He'd always kind of thought that a firearm might be handy in a job like that.

Dean looked back at Sam who was now toying with his fork, pushing his dinner this way and that on the plate, trying to pretend like he wasn't listening to the group behind him.

"Anything you want to talk about?" Dean asked carefully.

"I was going for silent and brooding," Sam replied, "but thanks."

"Sorry. Hard to tell the difference from the normal gloomy quiet thing you've got going on." Sam glared and Dean grinned. "Right. Forgot to mention the glaring."

"I save the glaring for special occasions."

Dean snorted. "Right. Like when you're…. breathing… or talking. You like it for lecturing, too. Did I mention breathing?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "That's what happens when your brother ignores two-thirds of everything you say."

"Two-thirds? Is that all?" Dean raised his fingers as if he were counting. "Coulda sworn I was up to seven-eighths by now."

A flutter of motion at the party table caught Dean's eye. A middle-aged woman sitting toward the center of the table stood and the entire group fell silent, which of course meant the entire restaurant fell silent.

"All right, everyone. We know why we're here." The entire table broke into applause and whooping, forcing the woman to raise her voice. "We have to set Hope up properly for tomorrow."

"Oh, I think she's been set up all right," a younger man called. "She's marrying this guy, isn't she?"

"Hey!" the man sitting next to the bride shouted. "I thought you were supposed to be my Best Man!"

More laughter and talking broke out until the woman who was still standing waved them once again into silence. "Ok, people. We've got work to do." Mother of the bride, Dean guessed. Had to be. "Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. Who's got something old?"

Almost as one, everybody at the table turned toward the end where a silver-haired woman sat. On cue, she produced an aged looking velvet case, which was passed from hand to hand until it reached the bride. She accepted it almost reluctantly, tears already forming as she opened it. She immediately rose to move around the table and hug the elderly woman.

"For the bride on her wedding day. May this necklace help to bring you everything that you deserve," the woman intoned, and to Dean's ears it sounded almost ritualistic.

"It's… beautiful, Grandma." The bride hugged the woman again, then moved back toward her seat, both of them dabbing tissues at their eyes.

"All right," Mother of the Bride said, letting out a huff of air as if she'd been holding it during the pass-off. "Who has something new?"

"Isn't the dress good enough?" the middle aged man sitting next to her asked in a stage-whisper. "It cost more than our first house."

"Frank!" The woman smacked him playfully, but added a barely disguised glare for good measure. Poor, broke-beyond-belief Father of the bride, Dean surmised.

"I've got this one." The groom reached into his pocket and pulled out another velvet-covered jewel case. The bride opened the case and gasped. "Do you like it, honey?" he asked nervously. "The bracelet matches the necklace. Your grandmother and I thought… maybe…"

Dean wondered if he'd _ever_ been that desperate to please a woman. Sure, he'd liked a few, more than liked a couple of them… But never enough to stay.

To answer her fiancé's question, the woman threw her arms around him, kissing him until the rest of the group started hooting and clapping. Finally, the young couple broke apart, both blushing and smiling. Dean thought he just might throw up.

"Don't do it," Sam ordered. "I don't want to see that gravy again. It looked nasty enough the first time."

"Just be grateful they're sitting behind you. You're not having to watch the floor show." And Dean _was_ grateful. Sam wasn't getting the full Technicolor version of _My Life If My Girlfriend Hadn't Been Murdered_.

"Ok, something borrowed," Mother of the Bride called.

Another middle-aged woman raised her hand, as if they were all still in grade school. "I've got them here, Hope." She reached into her purse and pulled out a plastic baggie. The baggie was passed around the table until it reached the bride, who opened it and produced something Dean couldn't see, but everyone oohed and aahed over at the table.

"They'll look beautiful in your hair, sweetie," the woman said. "But you'd better give them back or your cousin will hunt you down when she's ready to get married!" Everyone laughed appropriately and the bride nodded, reassuring the other woman that she would return the items.

"I think the dress safely has the _something blue_ already included," the hostess smiled merrily, "so that just leaves the last thing for me." She reached into her pocket and pulled out something very small. "Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and a sixpence in her shoe. Every bride in the family has kept this to ensure a happy, prosperous marriage and now it's your turn, sweetie." She placed the coin in her daughter's hand and bent down to give her a kiss.

With perfect timing the waitress arrived with food. The party broke up into the earlier laughing and chattering as they worked out which plate went to which person.

Sam sighed and put down his fork, rubbing his fingers across his brow wearily. "You feel it?"

"You, too?" Dean raised en eyebrow. "I was hoping it was the meatloaf making me all tingly."

"Not the meatloaf," Sam said, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, still looking at the wedding party, "my skin's still crawling."

"You see what it was?"

"Not sure. Started when the bride put everything into her purse. Don't know if it's just one of the things or maybe a combination. Maybe _something old_ and _something borrowed_ don't like each other."

"Great." Sam sighed again. "Looks like we're going to crash a wedding after all."

* * *

_More soon..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Forlorn Hope**

Summary: Sam and Dean crash a wedding. Or it might just be the other way around…

_Thank you for the kind reviews. They make me type faster_.

_Now where were we... Sam and Dean have run across a wedding party that's about to have a problem._

Chapter Two

* * *

"So what do we do?" Sam asked.

"You distract them and I'll steal her purse," Dean suggested.

"We've already got one job in this town. You hoping to get arrested before we can take care of the first one?"

"Speaking of which," Dean took his cell phone out of his pocket, "I was supposed to call when we got into town and this dumbass won't pick up his phone to give us the details."

"We still don't know who this guy is?"

"Nope. Just said he got our names from a friend and needed our help, but couldn't give us the details over the phone." Dean dialed the number he'd been given once again and held the cell to his ear. His head jerked up when he heard a phone ring not far from him. The groom took his cell phone out and Dean had the weird sensation of hearing "Hello?" come from the phone as well as overhearing it from across the room.

"We're here," Dean said without preamble.

He saw the groom stiffen and then run a hand across his face. "Good," he said, his voice a little breathy. "Great." He turned to the bride and said, "They're here, honey."

"Get off the phone!" the Best Man shouted. "You're getting married for crying out loud! Get rid of 'em!"

The groom laughed and waved the man away. "Where can I meet you?"

"Look up," Dean said.

"What?"

"Look up." He waited for the man to do as he'd asked. "Look left." The man's eyes traveled to his left and Dean waved. The guy nearly dropped the phone and Dean did his best not to smirk.

"I… you were watching us?" the man said, and Dean saw him visibly bristling.

"Dude, calm down. This is the only restaurant in town. You asked us to come, so we're here. We need to talk."

The groom took a breath, calming himself. He covered the phone and leaned over toward his fiancée. They spoke for a few seconds, their voices easily covered by the rest of the wedding party. She, too, looked up, startled and Dean waved again. She blushed and then turned back to the groom. They whispered for several more seconds, then the man took his hand off the receiver. "Can you wait a little bit?"

"Sure. We'll get some dessert." Dean smiled when Sam rolled his eyes.

"You eat any more dessert, we're gonna have to put you on _Weight Watchers_," Sam muttered.

"Don't worry." Dean smiled. "I'm starting to think I've got a tapeworm."

Sam made a face. "You couldn't just say you've got a fast metabolism?"

"Whatever." Dean waved a hand to get the waitress' attention. "Can we get a dessert menu?"

* * *

Dean had just won his second round of paper football and was on his third piece of pie by the time the party finally broke up. The bride and groom had been hurrying things along until finally only the groom, the bride and her mother were left. The groom waved them over to join them.

Sam glared at Dean when he picked up his pie to take with him, but Dean ignored him. He hadn't blamed the pie when Sam had been taken to Cold Oak and he wasn't going to leave it behind now. He walked across the restaurant, shoved a few dirty dishes out of the way and set his plate down on the table. "I'm Dean. This is Sam," he said as they both pulled up a chair.

"I'm Mort," the young man said, shifting nervously. "This is my fiancée, Hope."

"Fiancée, huh?" Dean smiled at the woman. "Never would have guessed. You guys are keeping it so hush-hush and all."

Mort pursed his lips in annoyance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you called us because you've got a life or death problem and we roared across three states to get here pronto, but you guys seem to still be in the festive mood."

"It's part of it," the man said defensively. "We're doing the best we can."

Sam glanced over at Dean, just barely, silently asking why he was being so difficult. Dean acknowledged the reprimand, despite feeling he had good reason to be miffed. Dean hadn't slept because they'd been driving all night and the better part of the day. These people had ruined a perfectly good meatloaf buzz and more importantly, Sam had spent the better part of the afternoon brooding about never getting to pick out a china pattern. As if Sam needed any help these days to be in a funk.

Granted, the brooding was better than the blank look Dean had seen too often lately or worse the unbelievably horrible moment of hesitation when Ruby had been prepared to kill an innocent girl to save them. Now that he thought of it, the brooding almost had Dean feeling nostalgic for the old days before, well… everything.

Dean sighed and looked to the mother of the bride. "And you are?"

"I'm Martha," she said, her gaze just shy of a glare. "It wasn't my idea to call you. I know there's nothing you can do."

Sam sat back in his chair. "You mind telling us how you got our number?"

"We found you on the internet," Hope said.

"Someone was talking about us on the internet?" Dean asked, frowning. "Who?"

Mort smiled for the first time. "They asked us not to tell you. Said you'd be… unhappy."

"Unhappy?" Dean said nonchalantly. "I'll hunt them down and open up a can of-"

"Dean," Sam cut him off, "focus." He looked toward the couple. "So tell us why you called. You wouldn't say much on the phone."

"It seems crazy," Mort said.

"But it's very real," his future mother-in-law added sternly. "You shouldn't be talking about this before the wedding."

"Look, we're good with crazy and real," Dean said plainly. "So just tell us."

The three people opposite looked at each other. Martha shook her head in disapproval, but the couple shared a glance asking who should start.

"The gifts have something to do with this," Sam prodded.

Hope jumped in surprise. "How did you know?"

"Can we see them?"

Mort shook his head and put his hand over Hope's purse protectively. "Not until after the wedding."

"Why?"

"They'll know."

That pulled Dean's attention away from his pie. "They?"

"The things. They'll know. I won't let you see them until Hope's out of danger and that won't be until after the wedding."

"What happens if we see them?" Sam asked.

"She could die."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Any attempts to interfere before the wedding, any attempts to stop the wedding and she could die."

Dean cocked his head to one side. "So the thingamabobs want you married. You're getting married. Everything's taken care of. Why do you need us?"

"Because once we _are_ married," Mort said, "I'm the one who's going to die."

Dean might have laughed if the guy didn't look so serious. "How do you figure?"

"No groom has lived longer than three years. Not that we know of."

Dean shared a glance with Sam who just shrugged. The people had refused to give any real info before they'd arrived and they were flying blind.

"Ok." Dean scratched a hand through his hair, then sat back in his seat, matching Sam. "I get the feeling we're coming in at the end of a conversation. Let's start at the beginning." The group opposite them once again looked at each other uncertainly. "Someone? Anyone?"

"We're cursed," Martha finally said.

Dean just looked at her. "You're cursed. How?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow," the woman frowned, "_after_ the wedding."

"Mother, just telling the story isn't going to hurt anything," Hope said with a frown of her own. "It's just the facts."

Martha heaved a sigh, clearly unhappy, but she nodded. "It all started with a bride. She was very much in love with her fiancé. She didn't know that all he cared about was a male heir. The necklace and the sixpence were given to her the night before the wedding."

"Why do I get the feeling this story isn't gonna end well?" Dean muttered.

"Dean," Sam said in a quelling tone.

"She eventually gave birth to a daughter and he was furious that he would have to wait for his heir. When the woman understood how little he cared for her, she put on everything she wore on her wedding day and drowned herself in the rain barrel. Her husband found her and was going to get help when he fell down a set of stairs and died."

"Tragic," Sam observed, "but how does that translate to a curse?"

"The daughter grew up. She married a wonderful man. They had a wonderful year together, happy as clams. As soon as their first child was born, the husband died. It happens that way for every firstborn daughter in the family. On and on and on."

"Whoa." Dean set his fork down. "You're telling me all the men die as soon as the first kid's born?"

"Daughter," Martha corrected. "It's always a girl."

"But you're married," Sam said, then looked at Hope. "I heard you call him Dad."

"My second husband," Martha explained. "Hope's real father was in a car accident the day after she was born." She wiped a stray tear away. "He was a good man."

"It's always the same," Hope said. "The couple is blissfully happy. It's like the necklace ensures that you meet the perfect man."

"Then it kills him before he can turn into a jerk," Dean commented.

"Why don't you just not get married?" Sam asked practically.

"Never works." Martha shook her head. "We always meet someone… someone special. Always. He'll pop the question before we know what's happened. Once the man's asked the girl to marry him the clock starts ticking. Long engagements don't work out well. A couple of grooms died. We think the necklace decided they were bad apples and took care of them early."

"Birth control?" Dean suggested.

Martha actually laughed. "I was using several forms _religiously_ when Hope happened."

"And before you ask," Mort cut in, "any attempts to interfere with the wedding result in disaster. Family members who tried to interfere died in accidents prior to the wedding. It's rare, but two brides have also died. We think the necklace thought they were being… ungrateful or something. When that happened the curse jumped to a second daughter from the family."

"So basically," Dean pursed his lips, "you guys are screwed."

Mort sighed heavily. "Basically."

Hope took his hand in hers. "It's all right, honey. They can help us." She looked at Sam and then Dean. "They _are_ going to help us," she said almost fiercely.

Sam shot an anxious look at Dean, who nodded just barely. Curses were bad business. Most of the time all you could do was stay out of their way.

"You can't do anything before tomorrow," Hope said. "It's too dangerous, for you and for us. That's why we didn't tell you anything on the phone. But the wedding is tomorrow," she added. "Once Mort and I are married, we've got a little leeway."

"Leeway?" For the first time, Hope's mother looked genuinely angry and Dean wasn't entirely sure who it was aimed at. "You called these two _people_," she made the word sound dirty, "and put your life at risk when you know there is nothing to be done! Do you honestly think there is anything that hasn't been tried in all of these years? Do you think we haven't been to every charlatan we could throw money at to try and fix this? Do you think I wouldn't have done _anything_ to save your father?"

"Mom, please…"

"No. You're my daughter and I love you, but this is wrong." Martha looked straight at Sam and then Dean and now he knew who she was angry with. "You could kill my daughter just by being here. I hope you're happy."

* * *

_The wedding's tomorrow…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Forlorn Hope**

Summary: Sam and Dean crash a wedding. Or it might just be the other way around…

_One wedding, comin' up…_

Chapter Three

* * *

Dean took his jacket off and threw it on the motel room chair. "Well, that was awkward."

The mother of the bride had gotten up, warned them not to come anywhere near her daughter before the wedding and then stood there until they left. After the wedding, apparently only the groom was in danger. If Mort wanted to risk his life, that was his business.

"She's just worried, Dean. She has every right to be," Sam said.

Dean sighed and sat down on the edge of his bed. "Yeah."

Sam's head came up in response. He hadn't expected Dean to agree so easily. "What is it?"

"Nothing." His brother looked almost embarrassed. "Just… hate it when old ladies yell at me."

Sam smiled. "Comes with the territory. Everyone yells at us."

"Yeah, but I can't yell back. Yelling at an old lady is like yelling at a nun. You just don't do it."

"Dean, you _have_ yelled at a nun."

"Dude, she was a novice… or whatever you call it. A pre-nun. And she was evil. That doesn't count."

Sam just shook his head. Dean-brand logic was a logic all its own. He sat down on the bed opposite his brother. "You think there's anything we can do about this mess?"

"If the family's cursed…" Dean shrugged.

"Yeah." There wasn't really anything you could do about a curse except stay out of its way. Mort had already gotten in the way so there was nothing they could do about that.

"But if it's the necklace or one of the other things," Dean said, "then we can try the ritual Bobby gave us for the rabbit's foot. That might do the trick."

"And if it's neither," Sam said thinking out loud, "then we figure out which woman it was that started all of this and go dig her up."

"Might want to do that anyway, just on the off chance," Dean added.

"We need to get a look at the wedding gifts," Sam said.

"You that desperate for Tupperware?" A tiny smirk appeared on Dean's face, but it quickly disappeared. "We can wait until after the wedding. Hope will be in the clear and we'll have some time to sniff around."

"If her mother will let us," Sam said doubtfully.

"And if there's nothing we can do?" Dean asked, looking like he'd just swallowed a bug.

The question stopped Sam cold and he looked at Dean, just looked at his brother. As if Sam had been able to do anything else for months now, as if he hadn't been thinking about that question every second since Mort had told him that they were working on a deadline or he was a dead man, since Hope's mother had furiously informed them that there was nothing that could be done and just looking into it could cause disaster.

Sam forced himself to relax, forced himself to calm down. The deadline was so close now, he felt like he was walking around with constant muscle strain he was so tightly wound.

Dean was frowning now, watching him worriedly, and Sam's gaze met his unflinchingly. "There's always something we can do. There _has_ to be."

* * *

Dean couldn't be happier. The wedding was over, everyone was alive and well, and he'd made it through the ceremony without vomiting. The bride had looked like someone had lost a bet with a lace manufacturer. There were enough flowers that Dean was starting to wheeze. They'd played a bunch of music that had made all the women cry and made him want to weep, maybe gouge his eyes out too. But now they'd pushed back the chairs and it was time for the reception. That meant booze and single women wishing they had a man. Good times all around.

Sam on the other hand could have been a lot happier. His face was serious, too serious, and Dean sighed. "Spit it out, Sam. You're scaring the chicks away."

"It's weird."

"What is?"

"This." Sam vaguely gestured to the activity around them. "We're at war and all of this… normal life… People are still getting married and throwing parties. Things are still normal for them. It's just… Must be nice."

Normal. Sam still thought it would be nice to be normal.

Sam was the tall one. Dean was more average height. Sam was the scholar, the smart one. Dean made it through school. Sam was the one who questioned, who fought with Dad, who left. Dean stayed, did his job, kept plodding along. Sam was supposed to lead the Army of Darkness. Dean was just Dean. No special powers, no special destiny other than to look out for the brother who _was_ special. And what had being normal got him? It got him orders to kill the special one if and when the time came.

Normal was overrated.

Dean shrugged. "Whatever. Normal's overrated. Besides, fighting evil means we get invited to strangers' weddings."

Sam looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead just let his eyes roam around the room seeing all of the happy, laughing, brightly dressed people.

"Look, you wanna be gloomy, that's fine. At least be useful while you're brooding. I'm gonna go get a better look at the gifts."

"Huh?"

Dean grinned broadly. "I'm gonna dance with the bride."

* * *

Sam took a deep breath and pulled himself together. Dean was right, not that Sam would tell him that. Winchester rule number one, suck it up and do the job.

Sometimes Sam thought being cold and hard was easy. Sometimes being more like his brother and making the tough decisions was simple. Sometimes he thought he was willing to kill anything and everything, every_one_, if it would win this war and save his brother. And then Sam saw a pretty girl on her wedding day and remembered that it hadn't always been this way, that a conscience was a strength, a virtue, not a liability.

Sam rubbed a hand over his face and stood. Tired. He was so tired. His eyes traveled over the crowd again until he found who he was looking for.

The groom was standing close to the platform where the ceremony had been staged, but had since been taken over by the DJ and all of his mass of stereo equipment. Mort was surrounded by a group of men in matching tuxes and they were all grinning like idiots. Sam felt a tingle of anger curl up his spine. This man knew he was in serious trouble, whether the friends did or not. A person just didn't go around acting like nothing was wrong when his life was on the line. He didn't throw a party. He didn't laugh it off.

Sam shrugged his shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension, and walked toward them. Glancing around the room, Dean caught his eye. His brother gestured toward Mort and made a show of smiling, silently telling Sam to do the same if he was going to be in interview mode. Sam nodded and forced a smile as he approached the group.

Mort's expression wobbled just slightly as he caught sight of Sam. "Hey, guys, this is a friend of mine. Sam." The group of men, all about Mort's age in varying states of sobriety, shook Sam's hand in turn. "This guy," Mort elbowed the average looking, brown-haired man beside him, "is my Best Man, Andy. You probably saw him last night."

Andy shook Sam's hand, looking at him curiously. "How do you know Mort?"

"We met through some mutual friends," Sam said, pasting on his most harmless smile. "Hope and Mort were making wedding plans and needed a little help with the fine print."

"Yeah?"

"It's a surprise," Mort said. "Sam's helping me with a little project. As a matter of fact, why don't you guys give us a minute?" He rubbed his hands together conspiratorially. "We've got some business to discuss."

The men laughed and slapped the groom on the back, then wandered off in various directions.

"Everything all right?" Sam asked.

"Wonderful," Mort answered, his eyes traveling toward his new wife, a broad smile spreading across his face. "That is if your brother isn't planning on running away with Hope."

Sam looked over in time to see Dean tap the man dancing with Hope on the shoulder and quickly replace him as her partner. Dean smoothly moved back into the dance with her, making Sam wonder where his brother had ever learned to do that. Dean made some comment and Hope laughed merrily while a deep blush spread across her cheeks.

Sam just shook his head. "Don't worry. Even Dean wouldn't try to steal the bride." Dean leaned closer to her and said something else that had her giggling. "Of course, that doesn't mean he won't flirt shamelessly."

"I suppose it's a comfort that the necklace will make sure he drops dead if he actually tries anything," Mort observed.

_He's going to drop dead anyway_. Sam couldn't help the traitorous thought. It was so close now. The deadline was breathing down their necks and there was just nothing they could do.

"I'm kinda surprised you guys had this big wedding," Sam remarked, "given the circumstances and all."

"Why?" Mort asked, seeming genuinely surprised.

_Because marrying her is going to kill you_. "Because of what it means," Sam said, "for you."

"Look," Mort said straightly. "I love Hope. Love her more than anything in this world. I know you guys are a long shot. Probably aren't going to be able to do anything, and that makes it that much more important."

"I don't understand." Sam frowned.

"Hope and I, we're going to have nine months together at the least, two, maybe three years if we're really, really lucky. If that's all we're going to have then I'm going to make sure that woman has something to remember after I'm gone. I want her to have something to hold on to. She'll have our daughter and a few pleasant memories. So if she wants a wedding and a dress that looks like someone barfed lace all over her then that's what she gets."

"Why did you ask her to marry you?" Sam asked curiously.

"I love her," was the simple answer.

"I mean, she warned you not to, didn't she?"

"Yeah," Mort shrugged, "but it didn't matter. In that instant… it just didn't matter. I wanted to be with her, really with her, even if we wouldn't have that long. It would be enough." Mort gave him a chagrined smiled. "Of course, after I'd asked her, I knew I was an idiot who'd just signed his own death warrant, but hey," he shrugged again, "whatchya gonna do? A guy does stupid things when he's in love."

Sam was still looking at Dean and couldn't help a deep sigh. A guy did stupid things when he was in love and Dean did stupid things when… well, when he was breathing. But especially when the brother he'd sworn to protect was in danger. And a dead Sam had sent Dean nearly out of his mind. He'd done the stupidest thing imaginable.

As if he could tell what Sam was thinking, Dean turned Hope so that he could look at Sam over her shoulder. He raised an eyebrow and then shook his head, before shifting his eyes just for a second toward Mort. _Focus, Sam_.

"So you're sure it's safe for us to poke around, now that you two are married?" Sam asked.

"Hope's safe now," Mort said with certainty.

"And you?"

"Don't know. There has to be a daughter for the curse to keep going, which means you two should have some time." He looked up at Sam. "You think you can do something? Really?"

"We're gonna try."

* * *

Dean turned Hope again so that he was no longer looking at Sam. The expression on his brother's face had been more than Dean wanted to see, as happened far too often these days. He forced himself to relax and simply enjoy the dance. Hope was off limits, but he could appreciate holding her for the time being. There were few things he liked better than the company of a pretty woman.

"Have you ever noticed anything odd about the necklace? Or the other things that have been passed down?" Dean asked.

"You mean other than their tendency to kill people?" Hope asked in turn.

"Other than that." Dean nodded.

"No, not really." He felt her fingers dig into his shoulders more tightly, though he doubted she knew she was doing it. "To be honest, I've always avoided them. I knew what they were going to do to me one day. It was just an unavoidable fact of life."

Dean felt his shoulders begin to tense and once again ordered himself to relax. "Sometimes you just can't fight what's going to happen," he said. Sometimes, your family history just made sure you were screwed from the very beginning and there wasn't a single freaking thing you could do about it. Sometimes, you made a decision that seemed like the right thing to do and it sort of worked out and it sort of bit you in the ass.

"You sound like my mother," she said, frowning.

Dean leaned back so he could see her face more easily. "Hey, now. No need to be nasty."

"You guys are here because you can do something and I'm counting on you to do it. You _have_ to save him." She looked at Dean, her intent eyes daring him to say otherwise. "I can't be the reason he dies."

Dean just nodded. Hope was trembling very slightly now and he badly wanted to save Mort for her sake, wondering if that wasn't a large part of the reason he wanted to be saved himself. He wanted to be saved for Sam's sake as much as his own. And he _really_ wanted to be saved for his own sake. He imagined Mort did, too.

The song ended and Dean escorted Hope to the side of the dance floor. "So when can we get a look at the stuff?"

To his surprise, Hope took her hand from his arm, reached back, unclasped the necklace and handed it to him. "Take it. I hope I never have to see it again. I'll get you the rest after the reception."

Dean reached into his pocket and flipped on the EMF meter. It immediately started to whine and crackle. People turned, casting curious looks in his direction, so he quickly flipped the switch off. "We have liftoff."

Dean looked up and out of habit his eyes searched for and found his brother who was still standing beside the groom in front of the small stage-like platform that had been built for the wedding. A heavy metal arch that had been the centerpiece of the ceremony, covered in flowers, ribbon and other wedding-y type crap stood behind the DJ's mass of equipment. Dean saw the arch begin to separate, one of the pieces of heavy ironwork heading straight for where Sam and Mort were standing.

"SAM!" It was a full drill sergeant bellow and Sam's head snapped up in response, zeroing in on Dean. "TAKE HIM LEFT!"

Guests started shouting, half looking toward Sam, the other at Dean who had shouted the warning. Before the words were out of his mouth, Dean was barreling across the room, brutally shoving anyone out of his way who failed to move fast enough.

In slow motion, he saw Sam push Mort aside, away from the platform and the heavy archway as it came apart and began to topple. The stage along with the archway broke in pieces, half crashing to the ground where Sam and Mort had just been standing, and sending the remainder of the archway toward the DJ who jumped to safety before it crashed into the equipment, tipping all of it forward aimed right toward where Sam and Mort had moved for safety.

Sam's eyes widened as he saw Dean still running as him full tilt. Dean grabbed a fistful of Sam's shirt and managed to grab Mort's jacket, using his momentum to pull them both, spinning them out of the way just as the platform and all of its contents collapsed, pulling every bit of the wedding decorations to the floor with it. Sam, Dean and Mort ended in a jumbled pile just inches from the disaster area.

"Sam, you all right?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam answered, sitting up and disentangling himself from a flower arrangement. "Other than a bad case of whiplash."

"Mort?" Dean turned the other way, just as Hope threw herself at her husband, holding onto him for dear life.

"It's all right, honey. I'm all right," he assured her.

Dean looked past Sam to see the entire roomful of people staring at them, and he was once again aware of the shouting and loud voices.

Dean got to his feet and helped Sam up. Only then did he realize the real disaster. "Where's the necklace?"

"What?" Sam still looked rattled.

"Hope gave me the necklace right before this." Dean realized he must have dropped it when he grabbed Sam. He scanned the floor around him obscured by too many feet.

Nothing. No necklace.

Sam and Dean both looked down at Mort, who was bleeding from a cut near his eyebrow.

Dean sighed. "I think it's pissed."

* * *

_When wedding's attack… more soon…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Forlorn Hope**

Summary: Sam and Dean crash a wedding. Or it might just be the other way around…

_So the necklace has gone missing which leaves the boys in a bit of a pickle…_

Chapter Four

* * *

Sam and Dean sat side by side in the central courtyard of the hotel. The reception had quickly come to an end after the stage collapsed. The company that had planned the wedding had cleared away most of the detritus, although the courtyard still looked like a beribboned disaster area. The DJ had taken the remains of his equipment after loudly threatening to sue anyone and everyone for the damage done.

Mort and Hope had gone into their room and hadn't come out since, while Sam and Dean sat outside, trying to make sure nothing else happened. Sam glanced over at Dean who was moving restlessly in his chair.

"Shoulder bothering you?" Sam asked. The possessed FBI agent had shot Dean in the same shoulder that Sam had. Dean hadn't said anything, but Sam knew it was slower healing this time. Might never be what it had been.

"S'fine," Dean answered offhandedly. "Just don't like sitting out here."

"We're on bodyguard duty until we find the stuff." The necklace was missing, as was the sixpence. Apparently Hope had lost a shoe in her mad dash to get to Mort and the coin was now gone as well. "Can't be helped."

"I know." Dean grimaced. "Doesn't change the fact that we're sitting out here bored to tears so they can get their groove on. It's wrong on so many levels."

Sam shifted uncomfortably. Now that he put it like that... "So what do you think happened?"

"Hope handed over the necklace, I turned on the EMF and it all fell to crap," Dean stated flatly.

"The necklace knew we were trying to break the curse. Or if it's a spirit attached to the necklace, the dead woman knew we were trying to stop her," Sam observed.

"Plans to break the curse meant that Mort turned into a jerk ahead of schedule or whatever and now it's going to kill him ahead of schedule. Might not like us too much either since we're helping." Dean shook his head in annoyance. "So where does that leave us? We can't try the ritual since the necklace is missing, which can't be a coincidence."

"No," Sam agreed. He tugged at his lip in frustration. "We try to keep Mort alive, we salt and burn the first woman and we try to find the necklace. But even if it is a ghost, it might be attached to the necklace as much as to the bones. The salt and burn might not be enough." Dean seemed to deflate where he was sitting, sagging back into the chair. "What?"

Dean cast him a sidelong glance. "Nothing. Just... tired."

Dean wasn't alone. It wasn't just exhaustion. It was depression. Hopelessness. Helplessness. The fighting only meant they had to go on fighting and that they would go down fighting. Dean sooner than later. So soon.

Sam looked around him at the remains of the wedding reception. Dean was never going to meet a girl, never going to get married. He'd never have a chance to see his children, see grandchildren. See Sam's children. Dean wasn't even going to be there next Thanksgiving for their ceremonial roast turkey TV dinner.

"Breathe, Sammy." Sam inhaled deeply. He hadn't even realized he'd stopped. "We're not there yet," Dean added quietly.

Sam nodded, forcing air in and out through his constricted throat. They had time. Dean was sitting beside him and they still had time.

"You ever imagine getting married?" Sam asked. The question was out before he even knew he was going to ask it.

Dean looked at him for a second like he'd gone mental, but then he shrugged. "Doubt it. Doesn't really go with the job."

"No, I mean a wedding. You ever imagine one."

Dean looked at him again and this time there was a full smirk in place. "Yeah, my wedding planner is stashed in the trunk between the 12 gauge and the grenades."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "I'll take that as a no?"

"It's sort of a _Guns 'N Ammo_ meets _Winter Bride _theme." Dean nodded, all mock seriousness. "It what makes camo so cool. It goes with anything."

"Dean…"

"How do you feel about hyacinth?" He cocked his head to one side. "Too much for a bouquet? They get kinda big, but you could hide a Taser in with it. They're making 'em in colors now."

Sam held up his hands in defeat to stop him. "All right, all right, I get it. Wedded bliss and hunting don't mix." Though now that Dean had brought it up he could totally see Dean asking his bride to let Marigold be the Maid of Honor. Dean loved that sawed off shotgun almost as much as he did the Impala.

"You can say that again."

"Wedded bliss and hunting don't mix."

Dean actually laughed, a light little huff of amusement, though Sam could tell he was taking the conversation far more seriously than he was letting on. He'd seen his brother when they'd been under the effects of the dream root. The vision of Lisa sitting on the picnic blanket, telling him they'd have to go pick up Ben soon, that had come from somewhere.

Dean sank back into his chair, the amusement in his eyes fading. "I nearly got married once. She was a nice girl and I was pissed at Dad… pissed at a lot of things."

Sam hardly dared to glance at his brother for fear he would stop. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"While I was at Stanford?"

"Yup."

"Was she a stripper?"

Sam was shocked at the anger that spread across Dean's features before his brother viciously tamped it down, hiding it behind a blank mask. "I said she was a nice girl, Sammy. I meant it." He was watching the door to Hope's room, but Sam could see that Dean's eyes were a little unfocused, seeing something or someone long gone.

Now that he thought about it, Sam shouldn't have been surprised. Dean didn't make strong connections with the ditzy blondes at the bar. He'd loved Cassie, a smart, hard-working, responsible member of society. When Lisa was a bad girl, he'd left her behind. When she was a working, single mother with a nice home who would do anything for her child, Dean had been far more hard pressed to move on.

Sam cleared his throat uncertainly. "You never told me that."

"No need to."

"You almost got married and that didn't seem like an interesting tidbit to drop at some point?" Sam asked, genuinely curious.

Dean shrugged. "Didn't happen. Another job came up. I took a swing at Dad and we moved on."

Sam blinked slowly, complete disbelief making him nearly speechless. "You." He blinked again, trying to wrap his head around the idea. He turned sideways in his seat so he could actually look at Dean head-on. "_You_ took a swing at Dad."

"Kinda surprised myself that day. He just…" Dean put his head down and rubbed at the back of his neck tiredly. Finally he looked back up and snorted. "I hadn't talked to him in over two months and I was so freakin' angry… Godzilla in the middle of Tokyo angry… And he deserved it," Dean added as if Sam might argue with him.

Sam wouldn't though, even if he had a clue what Dean was talking about. Sam had spent the better part of his teen years wanting to take a swing at their father. For Dean of all people to actually follow through on it, it must have been something of monumental proportions. And Dean had found a nice girl and nearly married her. He might as well have told him Gene Simmons had joined the Amish.

Dean straightened in his seat and crossed his arms, physically closing himself off. "So what about you, Mr. Apple Pie?"

"Huh?" Sam was still nearly mesmerized by the thought of Dean being angry enough to hit John Are-You-Talking-Back-To-Me-Boy Winchester.

"You been looking at china patterns? Figuring out where to register?"

Diversionary Tactics 101, but Sam allowed it, too easily caught up in memories of his own. "I caught Jess once with one of those bridal magazines." He could still see it. His Jess curled up on the sofa, thumbing through the pages, blushing when she realized he'd been standing in the doorway watching her. She'd been embarrassed and then she'd smiled. She'd smiled that knowing smile, full of promises, and he'd felt his heart swell with contentment unlike anything he'd ever felt. That smile had promised him love, comfort, joy, peace, family, stability.

Jess' smile had promised him his dreams. Before his dreams had turned to visions of fire.

Dean was looking at him warily, wordlessly assessing, and Sam realized he'd stopped talking, wasn't sure how long it had been. They'd just never really talked about Jess except in a roundabout way. At first it had been too painful and they'd just avoided the topic. Dean had let him deal with it, offering silent peripheral support as only Dean could. Later they'd been too preoccupied with other disasters. Nowadays, it had been so long ago it just didn't come up anymore. "It would've been a good day," Sam said, "a perfect day."

"Yeah," Dean nodded solemnly, "and then you two would've had a herd of freakishly tall children."

Sam choked out a laugh that was perilously close to a sob. "I'm sure there would've been a runt of the litter in there somewhere. And I'm sure you would've been there for him, teaching him how to overcompensate by being an a-"

"Hey!" Dean said indignantly. "Somebody'd have to teach the kid how to live surrounded by long-haired, brainy giants."

The door to the room flew open and Sam and Dean both immediately reached for the guns tucked at their backs. Hope was paying no attention, however. She stormed through the door and stalked toward the front desk, barefoot and wearing a silk robe she was holding closed with one hand.

Dean was already on his feet, following in her wake. He pointed for Sam to check on Mort. Sam nodded his agreement and headed toward the still open door. He stuck his head into the room and saw Mort, wearing only a pair of boxers, frantically picking up their belongings and lifting them onto the bed. "Problem?"

"The toilet exploded."

"I beg your pardon?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sam caught the smell.

"I think every bit of sewage in the hotel is backing up into our room," Mort said furiously and Sam could see the rapidly expanding puddle moving out across the carpet into the room. "Kinda ruins the mood, don't you think?"

"You're ok, though?" Sam asked. He coughed in embarrassment. "You weren't... on it... or anything at the time?"

"Close enough," Mort answered, not seeing anything amusing in the question. "But I'm fine."

Hope reappeared along with the desk clerk and Dean, Hope looking halfway in between tears and screaming.

"Whoa." Dean stopped just inside the door as the stench hit him. "The curse trying for death by methane asphyxiation?"

"We have to have another room," Hope stated firmly. "Look at this!"

The desk clerk, a tired looking middle-aged woman, just stared at the room and sighed as if the entire world were against her. "There aren't any other rooms. We're fully booked."

"You have to have _something_," Hope pressed. "We can't stay here."

The woman walked toward the bathroom where water was still flowing through the doorway. "I'm sorry," she said as she passed Mort, "but there's just nothing I can do." She picked up the bottle of champagne that had been sitting on the dresser and turned, raising it high.

Sam was closest and threw himself forward to block the blow aimed at Mort's head. The bottle caught Sam across the shoulder blade and shattered. He felt more than saw movement behind him as Dean made a flying tackle to keep her from using the broken remains as a shiv.

The woman pushed Dean back, whatever was possessing her making her ferociously strong. "Out," Sam barked, holding his screaming shoulder and hesitating long enough to make sure Hope and Mort ran for the door.

As he was turning back, Sam heard Dean give a quickly stifled cry and knew the clerk had managed to do some damage with the bottle. Not to be outdone, Dean caught her on the chin with a swift right hook, knocking her flat. He then struggled to his feet, his hand pressed low on his side.

"What happened to not yelling at old ladies?" Sam asked, breathing hard, realizing he was soaked through on one side from the champagne. The smell mixing with the gentle scent of sewage was less than pleasant.

"Dude," Dean looked incensed, "once again with the evil. Besides," he leaned forward, grimacing and still holding his side, "I hit her. I didn't yell at her."

"Yeah, well, you didn't hit her hard enough," Sam said. The clerk was getting to her feet, reaching for another dagger-like piece of broken bottle. Sam and Dean quickly headed out of the room.

Hope and Mort were two doors down banging on a door. "Andy, open up!" Mort shouted.

The clerk was right behind them so Dean didn't even wait. He pushed Mort aside and kicked the door open. He then shoved Mort in ahead of him. Sam hurried Hope in, then he and Dean quickly slammed the door closed and leaned against it. Within seconds, they had to brace themselves as the woman rammed into the door again and again.

"Man, if we don't have to kill her, this chick is gonna be seriously sore tomorrow," Dean said.

Sam laughed, oddly euphoric at having to deal with something that didn't have the word _demon_ attached to it. He looked up to see three sets of wide, horrified eyes staring at them, Hope, Mort and now Andy.

"Hey, Mort?" Dean cleared his throat. "You might wanna put some pants on if we're gonna try for an inconspicuous exit."

"Huh?" Mort jumped slightly as the woman rammed into the door yet again.

"Dude. Pants. Now."

"Andy, do you have something he can borrow?" Sam said. "We're gonna need to move fast."

The Best Man who was looking at them all like they'd lost their minds walked toward a bag sitting on a luggage rack. He pulled a pair of jeans from them and handed them mechanically to Mort. "Someone wanna tell me what the heck is going on?"

Dean grunted, re-planting his feet after another blow shuddered through the door. "Curse. Ghost. Mort's gonna die. But don't worry. We'll be outta your hair as soon as we figure out what to do about the employee of the month here."

Abruptly, the banging on the door stopped and Sam heard the distinct sound of a body falling to the ground. He and Dean looked at each other. Sam just shrugged. They cautiously stood back from the door and opened it to see the desk clerk unconscious on the ground outside the room.

They both turned back into the room just in time to see Andy pick up the clock radio, rip the cord out of the wall and use both hands to bring it down on Mort's head.

* * *

_Maybe one day I'll write the story about John and Dean's little tiff, but at present I'm happy with it just in my head… Frankly, I've never done it because Sam's not in it, and a Supernatural story with Dean but no Sam is just incomplete. So feel free to imagine the reasons behind it however you would like. More soon…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Forlorn Hope**

Summary: Sam and Dean crash a wedding. Or it might just be the other way around…

_Thank you so, so much for the reviews for the last chapter. Wasn't sure how y'all would take it… Now on with the action!_

Chapter Five

* * *

Andy slammed the clock radio into Mort's head and the man crumbled to the floor. Dean pulled his gun, but Sam smacked it aside. "Dean, you can't!"

"What do you want me to do? Throw it at him?" Dean yelled.

Sam ignored him, tackling Andy before he could bring the radio down again and finish the job. They fell onto the bed and then off it on the other side into the small space between the wall and the bed. Andy fought like a tiger, clawing, punching, kicking, scratching, all with the unbelievable strength of a man possessed.

The onslaught abruptly stopped as Dean appeared and bodily hauled the man up, still twisting this way and that to free himself. He jabbed his elbow into Dean's injured side and he let out a whoosh of air. Andy reached around Dean and Sam scuttled off the floor, realizing at the same time as his brother that Andy was reaching for his gun.

Andy grabbed the gun from Dean's waistband, but as he moved back Dean caught his wrist and twisted mercilessly until Andy dropped it. Sam leapt across the bed and used the butt of his gun, slamming it down into the base of Andy's skull. Andy went limp and fell forward toward Dean who side-stepped and let the man hit the floor. Dean then staggered back and sat down on a chair, pressing a hand to his side and breathing hard.

"You ok?" Sam asked.

"Fine. How's Mort?"

Hope was already kneeling beside him, cradling his head in her lap, tears silently streaming down her face. "Mort? Baby? Wake up for me, honey."

Mort groaned, his eyelids fluttering open. He took a moment to focus properly and then groaned again raising his hands to his head.

"Great," Dean grunted. "Hate it when the clients kick off early. You ok, Sam?"

As soon as he said it, Sam felt the sting from the scratches and scrapes all over his face, neck and hands, anywhere his skin had been exposed. He'd taken a couple of shots to the ribs too, but nothing too bad. "I'm fine. Dude fights like a girl."

"That's because he is a girl." Dean stopped for a second. "Metaphorically speaking. Or not. Is it metaphorical if you're possessed by a chick? Or does that make it literal?"

"Not now, Dean." Sam stopped when he saw Dean was sitting awkwardly in the chair, pain written on his face. Sam should have known. Dean had a tendency to blather when he was hurting and trying to cover. "Dean?"

"I'm good. Help Mort up. We gotta get outta here."

Andy was already starting to stir and Sam hurried to get Mort up. "We need to go, Hope. Even if we knock Andy out again, it could jump to someone else in the hotel. There are too many people here."

"What?" She looked up at him in confusion, refusing to release Mort. "I don't understand."

"It's not a curse, Hope. It a spirit. And right now it's jumping from person to person to get at Mort. We need to go. _Now_."

"Explain later, Sam. Get him up," Dean ordered. He groaned as he got to his feet and placed a boot on the back of Andy's neck using his weight to keep the possessed man from rising.

Sam hauled Mort off the floor, his body almost a dead weight. Sam pulled one of Mort's arms across his shoulders and held him up, already heading for the door, the shoulder that had taken the blow from the champagne bottle not really appreciating the extra pressure. Hope quickly got to her feet, nervously eyeing their friend who was beginning to struggle while Dean was countering by practically standing on the guy.

"Where to?" Sam asked.

"Car."

Sam headed for the door, dragging Mort who made a half-hearted effort to walk. Sam quickly gave up on that and stopped long enough to swing Mort around and pick him up in a fireman's carry. Hope was following just behind. When they were halfway down the hall, Sam heard Dean's quickly approaching footsteps thumping behind them.

"Faster, Sam. I kicked him to keep him down and it barely fazed him."

Dean passed him still at a run, pushing Hope in from of him. He held the door open for Sam and then once again jogged toward the Impala, unlocking and flinging the rear door open. Dean had the car running and in gear by the time Sam had thrown Mort into Hope's lap in the back seat. Sam slammed his own door shut just as Andy appeared through the hotel door and made a beeline for them.

Dean gunned it and roared away from the hotel. "What now? We need a place to hole up."

Sam shook his head. "Dean, it could just jump to someone else and we'll be right back where we were."

"It's got to find us first," Dean snapped.

"Not if it's attached to Hope and not the necklace," Sam shot back.

"Then it wouldn't have bothered to take the necklace."

"My parents."

Sam and Dean both looked at Hope in the back seat. "What?" Sam asked.

"Go to my parents' house."

"I don't know if that's a good idea," Dean said slowly. "Your mom, she, uh… she doesn't like us very much."

"I need to take care of Mort and their house is closer than mine," Hope said, her tone no-nonsense. "Besides, my mother knows more about this than anyone else. Take a left at the light."

Dean hesitated, his gaze going back and forth from the road and the back seat, but finally he sighed and nodded. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and handed it back to her. "Call her and give her a heads up."

It took only a few minutes to arrive at the house. Mort was more alert, but Sam still had to take most of the man's weight to help him inside. Hope walked ahead of them, still holding her robe closed, mindful of her bare feet. Dean, Sam noted, was slower getting out of the car, holding a hand to his hip as he moved.

Hope's mother already had the door open and quickly ushered them inside. "What happened?" she demanded, her voice piercing it was so loud.

Sam moved past her and helped Mort to half sit, half fall onto the sofa. "The spirit didn't take it well that we were going to look into anything."

"Spirit?" Martha was only partially listening, worriedly looking her daughter over for any injuries. Her husband hurried into the room, and looked Hope up and down as well to make sure she was all right.

"Ghost," Dean said, leaning against the nearest wall. Sam moved to stand beside him and was surprised when Dean nearly leaned into his shoulder as if trying to stay upright. "She took a good whack at us, but we got away."

"Ghost?" The woman turned and really looked at them for the first time.

"Spook, apparition, phantom, the Bride of Doom."

"This is no time to be funny!" the woman snapped.

Dean looked down and shook his head. "No one appreciates a good defense mechanism. Kids these days," he said sadly.

"Somebody better start explaining and fast!" Martha ordered.

"Do you know anything about the woman who originally owned the necklace?" Sam asked. "We don't think you're cursed. Not in the real sense of the word. From what we just saw at the hotel, we think the woman's spirit is following your family around and taking out the husbands when she thinks they're going bad."

Martha's mouth actually dropped open. "That's… that's…"

"Crazy," Hope finished for her. "But from your tone, it sounds like you think that's actually _good_ news."

"It is," Sam assured her. "Ghosts follow rules."

"Mostly," Dean muttered.

"It's something we can work with. Do you know who the original owner was? Where she's buried?"

"Of course," Martha said in annoyance. Dean motioned for her to hurry it up. "Her name was Catherine Matthews. She's buried in Kent."

"Tell me that's the next county over," Dean pleaded.

"England," she said, frowning. "A couple decided to leave hoping that the New World might change their fortunes. Why?"

Dean seemed to sag further against the wall. "Perfect. Just perfect."

"It'll be fine," Sam said, though he wasn't really feeling all that certain himself.

"Meaning we'll figure it out before the ghost possesses one of the neighbors and kills us both?" Dean said hotly.

"What difference does it make where she was buried?" Martha demanded.

"The best way to get rid of a ghost is to salt and burn the bones," Sam explained. "The remains anchor the spirit. In this case, however, it might be the necklace that the ghost is attached to, or worse it might actually be Hope."

"Hope?" Martha looked to her daughter in alarm.

"Spirits can attach themselves to people and if the ghost is protecting brides it might attach itself to daughter after daughter to ensure the women in her family are 'safe'."

"So what do we do?" Hope asked. "We have to help Mort."

As if hearing his name brought the man out of his stupor, he looked up and struggled to his feet. "Bathroom."

"He's gonna barf," Dean predicted. "Concussion. Better move fast, man."

Hope helped him, but the man still stumbled and fell into Dean as he passed before moving on. Dean paled visibly and started to double over, but abruptly stopped, plastering himself to the wall to stay standing straight.

"Dean, sit down," Sam urged. Dean immediately shook his head and stayed put. Sam grabbed his arm to drag him, but Dean jerked away, gasping when he hit the wall again.

"Don't, Sam," Dean said tightly, his eyes closed.

"Don't what?" Sam asked worriedly. "You need to sit down. You look like you're gonna pass out."

"The glass broke when she got me with the bottle earlier. I'm not sitting down 'til its out."

"You've got glass in your side?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded. "The ride over here nearly killed me. Haven't had a chance to try and fish it out."

Sam pushed Dean's hand aside and now he could see the blood staining Dean's jeans. There were rips and it looked like she'd actually gotten him a couple of times.

"Just need some quality time with some tweezers and I'll be fine," Dean said.

Sam prodded carefully at the wound and knew it wasn't as simple as Dean was making out when he felt Dean's fingers dig into his shoulder. Sam couldn't help a cry of pain as the shoulder that had taken the blow from the champagne bottle flared to agonizing life. It took another second for him to realize that the cry had been echoed by Dean's own.

"Dean?"

Dean let go of Sam's shoulder and wrapped both of his arms around his middle, the cords in his neck standing out as he fought not to double over.

Martha hurried to their side, wide-eyed. "What's going on?"

"Dean, tell me what's wrong, man."

"The glass," he gasped. Dean cried out again in agony and began to slide down the wall. "It's moving."

"What?"

"It's…" Dean choked out another breath, half shout, half sob. "Sam, it's burrowing."

* * *

_All right. That was admittedly (and totally) gratuitous… More soon…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Forlorn Hope**

Summary: Sam and Dean crash a wedding. Or it might just be the other way around…

_You guys are great. You make all the time it takes to write this hooey worth it. _

_So last chapter Dean had been stabbed with a champagne bottle… On we go!_

Chapter Six

* * *

Sam grabbed Dean and held him up, having to almost hug him to keep him upright.

Martha headed for the phone across the room. "I'll call 911."

"No," Sam stated firmly. "Let me look at it first. I need a first aid kit if you've got one. And tweezers. Or pliers," he added a second later, not knowing how big the glass was.

"He needs a doctor!" she insisted.

"This isn't just the glass," Sam shot back, furious at having to waste time on this. Sweat had popped out on Dean's brow and his jaw was clenched. Something must have happened because Dean flinched and then his face screwed up in agony and a sound perilously close to a whimper slipped out. "This is the ghost trying to keep us from helping Mort."

Sam looked around and discarded the sofa as unsuitable. Martha must have seen his indecision because she headed for the door. "This way."

Sam hauled Dean beside him. His eyes were shut tight and he walked blindly, trusting Sam to do whatever was necessary to make the pain stop.

She led them into a bedroom and then hurried into the adjoining bathroom. Mort was already lying on one side of the king size bed, Hope standing beside him. Her stepfather was positioned at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed, obviously unsure what to do. Sam walked Dean around to the other side of the bed and as gently as possible eased him onto the bed, lifting his feet as he fell back.

"What's wrong with him?" Hope asked anxiously.

"Got a drinking problem," Dean said with a tight laugh. He wrapped his arms around his abdomen again, making a terrible guttural noise that made Sam want to yell at Hope's mother to hurry up. "Sam," Dean said breathlessly.

"Just hold on, man. She's coming." Sam shrugged off his jacket, now tacky from the drying champagne. "Gotta get some supplies unless you want me diggin' around with my fingers."

Dean rolled onto his side, nearly curling into a ball, his head tucked, then straightened again, grabbing the bedspread with one hand, and Sam could see that his brother just couldn't figure out which way was less painful. "Better… than this," Dean gasped.

"Hold still," Sam ordered.

"Sure," Dean said on a choked laugh. "No problem."

Sam grabbed the waistband of Dean's jeans and pulled it down, knowing just how badly Dean was hurting when he didn't protest despite the audience.

It was like something out of a horror movie. The skin was bowing, as if there were something moving below the surface, and even as he saw it, Dean gave a barely stifled cry and rolled away from Sam. It looked like something was trying to skin him from the inside.

Hope had seen it too and put her hand over her mouth. "Merciful heavens."

"Sam, please."

"Hope, where's the kitchen?"

"What?"

Sam came around the bed, grabbed Hope by the arm and dragged her along with him barely waiting for her to try and keep up with his longer stride. He pushed her out in front of him. "Kitchen!"

The urgency finally got through to her and she broke into a jog, leading him to the other end of the house. "What do we need?"

"Salt. Hurry."

Hope frantically rummaged through the cabinets until she found a small salt shaker. Sam snatched it out of her hand and bolted back to the bedroom. "Bring more if you can find it!" he shouted over his shoulder.

He screwed the top off as he ran back into the room alarmed to see Martha kneeling beside the bed. Dean was on his side facing her, one hand still wrapped around his middle, the other grasping hers in a grip that had to be painful. Her other hand was on his back rubbing circles, trying to soothe him.

"Move back," Sam ordered the woman. She immediately stood, though Dean refused to release her hand. "Dean, roll over for me." Dean, nearly out of his mind with the pain, wasn't moving fast enough and Sam pushed him onto his back. He jerked Dean's waistband down to expose the wound on his hip and poured salt over it. Dean gave a strangled noise that should have been a scream, but didn't quite make it past his throat.

Sam laid his hand flat over the salt, pressing down, blood from the wound soaking into the salt, all of it dissolving together into a mess, but after a few seconds Sam didn't feel the glass move again beneath his fingers and he stepped back.

Dean remained tense, his chest heaving, breathing hard through his nose, his jaw clamped shut. Martha carefully loosened his fingers and retrieved her hand from Dean's punishing grip. She tried to replace it with her other hand, but Dean balled his hands into fists and held them to his chest. "Sorry," he said, his voice rough.

Then Sam saw Dean do something he'd seen him do before, but it never ceased to amaze him. Dean relaxed his muscles one by one, mentally ordering himself to ignore what his body was telling his head. Tense muscles only aggravated the pain. Mind over matter. Mind over pain. Sam supposed he'd had enough experience, but doubted it was ever easy.

"Dean?" Sam said tentatively.

"Yeah," Dean grunted.

"You ok?"

Dean opened his eyes, bright with pain. "You _literally_… rub salt in my wound… and then ask… if I'm ok?"

"It worked," Sam said. He bent at the waist, resting his hands on his knees, feeling light-headed, his racing heart just beginning to return to a more normal rate.

"Great," Dean said tersely. His gaze suddenly sharpened. "You ok?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You're bleeding."

"Huh?" Dean groaned and started to turn so that he could sit up, but Sam stopped him. "Stay put. The glass is still in there."

"Sam, I'm not kidding," Dean said anxiously. "You're bleeding. A _lot_."

Frank stepped forward and pulled Sam away. "He's right. You're bleeding more than you should be."

Sam held a hand to his neck and brushed it over his face, immediately feeling the wet, sticky sensation of blood on his fingers. The ghost had apparently been having a go at him at the same time it had been after Dean. Every one of the scratches and gouges Andy had managed were bleeding.

"You have any salt left?" Dean asked and Sam nodded seeing the canister Hope had brought with her from the kitchen. "Good. Go get in the bathroom and salt the doorway. Frank, can you patch him up?"

Sam rolled his eyes and walked to the door to the whole bedroom and spread a line of salt across the opening, then went to the set of windows and did the same. "There," he said. "Happy?"

"Bathroom," Dean said tiredly, closing his eyes again.

"Frank, go with him," Martha urged. Her eyes met Sam's and a moment of understanding passed between them. "I'll stay here."

Sam took one last look at Dean, lying very still on the bed, then headed toward the bathroom. He saw that Martha had been setting out basic first aid supplies on the sink when she'd run back into the other room. Frank followed him in and Sam almost smiled. "Have a seat. You're just in here to make my brother feel better." The older man looked at him uncertainly, but Sam shook his head. "I got it."

Frank hesitated again, but then stepped into the small room. He had to close the door so that he could sit on the edge of the bathtub. Sam momentarily felt uneasy, but ordered himself not to be ridiculous. It was a door. Hardly anything. Dean was just on the other side and would still be there when he came out.

Sam looked in the mirror and sighed. No wonder Frank was looking at him like he might be nuts. He was a mess. He tried to care, but ever since those months alone after the Trickster had killed Dean, Sam just hadn't quite been able to manage it. Those months alone, all he'd been able to think about was Dean and finding the Trickster so he would put everything back the way it was supposed to be, to put Dean back in his life where he was _supposed_ to be. And now as Sam stared at his blood streaked face, it was still the same. Dean wasn't dead, he was in the other room, but Sam just didn't have time to worry or care about himself.

They were wasting precious time trying to help these people when he should be trying to fix the deal. Did they really matter in the grand scheme of things? Dean did. That was about all Sam was certain of anymore. Dean saved others. He fought for their souls, to keep them human. Dean couldn't do that if he was dead. Dean was what kept _Sam_ human. But Sam had to save his brother first if it was going to stay that way.

Sam washed the blood off his scraped up hands and then methodically began on the cuts and scratches on his face. The bleeding had slowed now that they were behind a salt line. As his face reappeared beneath the blood, Sam distantly noted that he looked like he'd been attacked by a rabid badger. That's what Dean would say anyway.

"Sure there's nothing I can do?" Frank asked.

"No," Sam said, surprised that his voice was a little harder than was strictly necessary. Thinking about the deal had a way of doing that. "No thanks," Sam said more gently. He turned to look at the man. "I'm sorry about all of this, Frank. Kind of a mess we've made here."

Frank immediately shook his head. "If it'll save Hope from this, save Mort, then all of this will have been worth it. You don't know it, but it'll save some other poor guy, too."

"How's that?"

"Hope and Mort... they're made for each other. The necklace or ghost or… whatever… it really does ensure that each woman finds a man who's nearly perfect for them."

"And that's bad?" Sam asked.

"It's a hard act to follow," Frank said, and Sam remembered that Hope's mother had also lost her first husband. Memories of that man had brought tears to her eyes at the barest mention of him at the rehearsal dinner.

Frank shook his head sadly. "You can't replace someone like that. When you have a partner like that, it's just not possible."

Sam just nodded, not sure he could speak if he tried. Dean was more than a partner, more than a fellow hunter, more than a friend even. Dean was his brother. They were blood. It was an unbreakable bond. Sam couldn't imagine replacing Dean. After the Trickster, Bobby had called and called, begged Sam to let him in and Sam hadn't been able to even consider it.

"Hope's my daughter," Frank said. "If you can save her and Mort, it will be a gift to us all." The man stood and took the hydrogen peroxide from Sam and used another cotton ball to dab at the scratches on Sam's neck. Sam was still nearly immobilized by the nightmare-like memories of being without Dean and he allowed it. Those memories were replaced by memories of Dean taking care of him when he'd needed a little patching up, though at the time he'd been smaller and sitting on the sink instead of leaning against it.

When he was at Stanford, he'd cut his hand badly while cooking of all things. Dean's name had instinctively come to Sam's lips, shouting for his brother before he'd realized what he was doing. Jess had come running instead, too intent on the wound to see his deep blush at the automatic reversion to old habits. Sam had marveled at her delicate bedside manner. Jess had been gentle, apologetic for causing him more pain. Dean would have scoured the wound and then smacked him on the head for being careless with his gun hand.

Jess's death had nearly broken him, but Dean's definitely would. Dean's _had_. And it would again.

* * *

"How's your hand?" Dean asked.

Martha wiggled her fingers. "Right as rain. How are you doing?"

Dean held his breath as she sat down beside him on the bed. She was careful not to jostle him and Dean was grateful. His Zen thing only got him so far. "Had better days, to be honest."

"I certainly hope so."

She shifted slightly and Dean had to focus on something else, anything else that was more painful than his side. Show tunes, mini-vans, women's hygiene commercials. "You don't have to sit here," Dean said. "You can check on Sleeping Beauty."

"I can see Mort just fine from here," Martha assured him. "And Hope's taking care of him."

"He's still unconscious," Hope said from the other side of the bed. "But he seems to be doing all right."

"So I'm going to just sit here for a while, all right?" Martha said.

Dean just grunted. He hated it when women yelled at him and didn't like it much better when they fussed over him.

"Live with it," Martha said. "You got stabbed helping my daughter. It's the least I can do."

Dean opened his mouth, embarrassed both that he'd been caught and that he'd been that transparent.

"Relax," she said, catching him off guard again. "I have two grown sons. The day I can't read a boy your age is the day I stop being a mother." She looked at him and frowned. "Does your mom know you two do this sort of thing?"

Dean held his breath. Shocked by how raw a question about his mother still made him feel after all these years. "She's dead," Dean answered before he thought better of it, wanting to punish her for asking about something so private, something that had made him the man he was today. "A long time ago," he added more gently.

"What happened to her?" Martha asked uncertainly.

"Something a lot nastier than what's after Mort."

"What did you do to it?"

"I put a bullet in its heart."

"She knows."

Dean nearly jumped. "What?"

"She knows what you do now," Martha said with certainty. "A mother watches over her boys. No matter what."

Dean fought not to be angry. This woman didn't know. She didn't know anything. She was sitting in her nice pretty house, with her husband and daughter, being all motherly and saying the things mothers were supposed to say, but Dean knew better. Sam had died and there'd been no one there for him but Dean. No Dad, no Mom. And now Dean was going to Hell. He didn't want to think that there was even the _possibility_ that his mother was going to see that.

Dean jumped when he felt a hand at his waist, hissing at the fiery pain the movement sent to his already overloaded nerve endings. Martha had gotten a cloth from somewhere and she was wiping away the salt and blood. "Hands!" Dean snapped.

"You're going to sit still and you're going to put up with it," Martha shot back. "Understand?"

Dean couldn't manage more than the barest of nods. Cleaning away the salt was good, because the burn was almost unbelievable, but she was also putting pressure on the glass and the damage it had already done. This was a no win situation. So… situation normal, he guessed. Finally, when he thought he was going to scream if she didn't stop, she set the cloth aside. His hip still felt like it had been burnt from the inside out, but there wasn't anything he could do for the moment.

Dean caught a distant noise and it took him several seconds to process what it was.

Sam came out of the bathroom looking like something that had been attacked by a rabid badger. "You ok?" Dean asked.

"Great."

"Glad to hear it," Dean said. He took a breath, held it and swung his legs over the side of the bed, forcing Martha to move back. He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring how shaky he felt, and drew the gun that had been digging into his back since he'd been on the bed.

"What's going on?" Sam asked, pulling his own gun in automatic response.

"I heard someone break in the front door about thirty seconds ago."

* * *

_More soon…_


	7. Chapter 7

**Forlorn Hope**

Summary: Sam and Dean crash a wedding. Or it might just be the other way around…

_Today's the showdown, tomorrow's the wrap-up…_

Chapter Seven

* * *

"Dean, you're not-"

"I'm your only backup, Sam, so don't bother," Dean hissed.

Sam shook his head, but didn't argue, for which Dean was grateful. Because he wasn't quite sure which of the Sams he should be arguing with. He was currently seeing several.

"You guys stay in the room," Sam ordered. "You'll be safe behind the salt line."

"Don't come out, no matter what you hear," Dean added for good measure, waiting for Hope, Martha and Frank to nod.

Sam took point, gun at the ready. They were both carrying iron rounds, but Dean could kick himself for not grabbing Marigold. Salt rounds would have been really useful right about now. He'd just been too preoccupied when they came in, what with the glass skewering him and all.

They both stopped outside the room listening carefully for noise, but none came. They moved forward, Sam first, then Dean, working in sync, clearing several rooms until they reached the living room. It was built with two doors leading into the dining room which in turn had two doors leading into the kitchen, creating three linked rooms, one behind the other, the living room in the front of the house, the kitchen at the back.

As they moved, Dean could feel that they weren't alone, but he couldn't see anything. Sam, he assumed, couldn't either since he didn't stop as they cleared the three rooms in succession.

Dean heard it then, behind them. Whoever it was had used the doors on the opposite side of the rooms to circle around. They turned to go back, Dean in the lead this time, but only seconds later Dean heard a sound that made his blood run cold.

Sam gasped. Dean whipped around in time to see his brother take a vicious kidney punch that knocked the breath out of him and then Andy brought a knife to his brother's throat, a large kitchen knife by the look of it.

"No, don't!" Dean shouted, seeing blood appear. The knife stopped, Sam still half dazed, trying to drag in a full breath. The cut wasn't lethal but blood was sliding across the blade and Dean fought not to shoot the guy where he stood. Andy wasn't Andy right now, however, and that wasn't an option. Not just yet anyway, as long as Andy didn't move again.

"You know it's only a matter of time," Andy said.

"Until I kill you? Yeah, pretty much."

"He's already different. You know it."

"Son of a…" Dean wanted to punch something. The ghost whacked husbands when they turned bad. And now she was after Sam. Yeah, sometimes he and Sam fought like an old married couple, but that didn't mean that one of them needed to be offed.

"I don't know and I don't care. He's my brother and that's that."

"Admit it," Andy said sternly.

"Admit what?" Dean shot back.

"That he's changed. Different."

Dean ground his teeth. _How certain are you that what you brought back is 100 percent pure Sam?_ "I don't care if he's turning into a freakin' butterfly. He's _mine_ to worry about, not yours."

"Why wait until he's nothing like the man you knew?" Andy said, his tone infuriatingly reasonable.

"Because even if there's nothing left, he's mine to deal with and I'll fix it." Dean's eyes were on Andy, carefully avoiding meeting Sam's gaze. "I'm the one to blame. If he's different, it's because of me. He had to change because of me."

Andy's eyes narrowed, studying him and Dean felt a chill race down his spine. His finger tightened on the trigger in case Andy so as twitched. "He had to change to suit you?" Andy asked coldly.

Dean had made the deal and it had changed everything. Sam was desperate, angry, trying to be brave, trying to be hopeful, but shutting down the kindness, the understanding, the patience, the things that made Sam, Sam, all so that he could help Dean, or if he couldn't help Dean, then to do what needed to be done. And then there was that tiny, niggling fear that maybe Sam had come back with a few little additions of pure, unadulterated evil.

"You made him change to suit you?" Andy demanded again.

"Dean, no," Sam said desperately.

Dean ignored his brother. "Close enough."

Andy turned the knife with a flip and threw it. Dean dodged easily, but the ghost's intent had only been to distract him. Andy pushed Sam forward at the same time scooping up the gun from the floor that Sam had dropped.

Dean caught Sam before he fell and they both turned back to see the ghost holding the gun, Andy's aim shifting back and forth between them. "You are both a danger to the other."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Dean muttered.

Andy's aim continued to shift back and forth and Dean felt a smile spreading across his face. "She doesn't know who the bigger problem is. That's awesome."

"Enough. Stay out of this," the ghost said. "I have more pressing business."

"No, wait. Please," Hope said, appearing beside them.

"One simple order!" Dean threw up his hands in frustration. "Stay behind the salt. Is that too much to ask?"

Hope paid no attention. "Please, don't hurt Mort."

"I'm protecting you," the ghost said, the tone once again reasonable.

"No, you're not," Hope stated firmly. "You're _killing_ me."

"You don't understand," Andy replied. "He'll change. He won't be the man you married."

"Maybe so, but if you kill my husband, you've killed me too."

Andy frowned in confusion. "I would never hurt you."

"You think I can live without him?" Hope demanded fiercely. "You think I even want to _try_?"

"You will recover. You will remember him as he should have been."

"You don't get it." Tears were trailing down Hope's face. "I won't live without him. I will not raise a child alone to live through this hell. You've killed us all with this curse. I won't live. I can't." She glared at the ghost. "I will _choose_ not to live if that is what it takes to end this."

Dean felt Sam looking at him and didn't dare to turn his head to meet his gaze. It was too close to home, too close for both of them. After Sam's death, he'd been only a hair's breadth from making sure Sam wasn't alone, not wherever he was, and not his dead body lying in that filthy room. Then the idea of the crossroads that he'd been fighting to keep away had refused to be ignored anymore. That had brought a whole new set of questions and problems to agonize over, but in the end, he'd gone with the known quantity. He'd known Sam would be furious. He'd be furious, but he'd be alive and with him, at least for a while.

But now Sam was on the other end. And Dean had no clue what was going on in that freaky head of his brother's. He didn't know what choice Sam would make when the time came and that scared Dean more than almost anything else.

Andy stood there as if unsure what to do. He was facing Hope which meant Sam was farthest from his line of vision. He began to edge away from Dean, closer to Andy.

"I just want to protect you," the ghost said. "You're my child."

"Which makes it that much worse," Hope said angrily. "You know what? You're just like your husband." The ghost was visibly staggered, the gun dipping slightly and Sam took another step closer, coming up behind Andy. "He wanted a son, an heir. That was all that mattered. He didn't care what it did to you. And now all you care about is a daughter, a child to pass on this legacy of death. You're worse than your husband. He broke your heart. But you? You've broken us all."

"I… I…" Andy's arm dropped to his side, the gun along with it.

"Do you know how many suicides this family has seen?" Hope cried. "How many daughters raised by relatives because the mother was dead or driven insane by grief? Yes, you've protected us all _so_ well. You've protected us to _death_."

Sam sprang, knocking the gun free from Andy's hand. An unearthly screech came from the man and he turned, faster than Dean would have thought possible, barreling into Sam and knocking him to the ground.

Dean's eyes widened seeing a necklace he knew far too well, peeking out of Andy's pocket. Dean suspected the sixpence would be there as well.

Sam twisted and managed to turn so that he could get an arm free, then punched Andy hard enough that his head snapped back and the man seemed stunned. It lasted only a second, however, and like lightning the man had Sam in a bruising headlock.

"This is not your affair!" Andy shrieked. "And yet you continue to interfere!" He tightened his hold until Sam made an ugly wheezing noise as he tried to draw breath. "Both of you! Who bring nothing but disaster to the other!"

Dean watched in horror as blood began to pour from the wounds Sam had received earlier, in moments covering his face and hands. It was so dreadful a sight that for several seconds Dean didn't realize his own danger. Andy looked up at him, pure hatred on his possessed features. A bare twitching of the man's head and Dean felt the glass embedded in his side move up, ripping through his abdomen just below the skin, another twitch and the shards of glass were ripped from his body. Dean dropped to his knees and blood began to flow freely, quickly covering the hand he pressed to his side.

Dean pushed past the pain and hurried toward Sam, using what strength he could muster to slam the butt of his gun into Andy's nose. Andy released Sam who fell forward, sucking in a huge lungful of air. Dean pounced, landing on Andy, using his weight to keep the possessed man down. "Salt!"

"There isn't any left!" Hope shouted. "We used it all in the bedroom!"

"Sam, hold him down," Dean ordered. There was no room for pride at a time like this. His brother was just bigger than he was and would have a better chance against the supernaturally strong Andy.

Sam, still breathing heavily, lumbered closer and practically fell on top of the man, but roused himself enough to put a knee on his back and hands on Andy's shoulders, using his full weight to keep the man down.

Dean had barely a moment to worry, seeing the blood running from Sam's face and neck onto the man he was holding down. He forced himself away and headed for the car, already fumbling with his blood-covered hand for the keys in his pocket.

He staggered out the door, holding his arm to his throbbing side, but nearly forgot everything else at the sight before him. The tires were flat. Someone had _purposely_ vandalized his baby. Dean stalked to the trunk and threw it open. He pulled out the salt, as well as the other bag of supplies, kept just for circumstances like these, slammed the trunk and marched back inside.

Sam was struggling to keep Andy on the ground and Dean hurried to pour a thick line of salt around both of them. He jammed his hand in Andy's pocket and pulled out the necklace and coin, tossing them to one side. He then held out a hand and hauled Sam up, gritting his teeth as his side protested. Sam fell back, landing hard on the ground, though he was aware enough not to scuff the salt line. Dean slumped down beside him on his knees. Sam wiped blood from his face, while Dean leaned forward, feeling like he might need help keeping his guts on the inside.

They all watched as Andy got to his feet and screamed in fury, but was unable to cross the salt.

"Be thankful you're possessed or I'd shoot you myself for slitting my tires!" Dean shouted. The action tightened the muscles in his abdomen and he had to brace a hand on the floor or fall on his face.

"You ok?" Sam asked.

"Sorta," Dean gasped. "You?"

"Little light-headed."

"You're supposed to keep the red stuff on the inside."

Sam gave a pained laugh. "Look who's talking."

"You both look like you work in a slaughterhouse," Hope said anxiously.

"I'll kill you all!" Andy shrieked.

"Pipe down!" Dean crawled forward and emptied the bag he'd brought in from the car. Sam wiped blood from his eyes, scooted closer and between the two of them they quickly set up the small circle of herbs and other less pleasant things needed for a version of the purification ritual they'd used on the rabbit's foot.

A little smoke, a little Latin courtesy of Sam, a nice hole burnt into the carpet stinking up the house properly, the coin and necklace thrown onto the pyre and Andy dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

"He unconscious?" Dean asked Hope. She was the only one still mobile to take a look.

"Yes."

"Give him a kick to make sure."

"Dean." Sam frowned in disapproval.

"What? The jerk slit my tires!"

"He was possessed!"

"Like ghosts shouldn't have some respect for my car?"

"She was born before there were cars, Dean!"

"She knew how to use a gun well enough!"

"Are you two finished?" Hope snapped.

They both looked up at her, slightly embarrassed. Dean blinked to fight off a wave of dizziness.

"Yes," Sam said.

"Mostly," Dean added. He fell more than sat back against the wall behind him. Dean looked down at himself and really wished he hadn't. He pressed a hand to his side, annoyed at just how spongy his clothing felt it had soaked up so much blood. Dean glanced over at Sam who was also leaning back against the wall, blinking almost vacantly. "Dude, you look like Carrie at the prom."

"Need a tux for the prom," Sam mumbled, his grin a gruesome sight on his blood-streaked face.

"Got one in my other bag," Dean replied. Sam slumped sideways, making Dean grunt with pain when he leaned into him.

"Does this mean it's over?" Hope asked.

Dean gestured grandly with his free hand. "Mort may now kiss the bride."

Hope knelt in front of him just as Sam slumped further, his head coming to rest on Dean's shoulder. Dean hardly noticed the edges of his vision beginning to blur. He blinked slowly, trying to focus on Hope.

"Mom, Dad, I need your help in here!" she shouted.

Dean grinned. Or at least he thought he grinned. He wasn't feeling a whole lot at the moment. "Better take a picture for the wedding album first."

"You two do match the roses," she replied. Hope leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. "But don't worry. No matter what happens, we won't ever forget you."

Dean's brain was fuzzy and he felt himself fading despite his best efforts to stay awake. Hope would never forget him. That was a nice thought. But Dean was going to die and from what Ruby had told him he was going to forget everything, including that he'd once been human. He'd forget his mother. He'd forget his father. He'd forget Sam. He would lose it all. He would lose Hope.

* * *

_The wrap-up tomorrow…_


	8. Chapter 8

**Forlorn Hope**

Summary: Sam and Dean crash a wedding. Or it might just be the other way around…

_Well, this is it… all wrapped up. Thanks for reading._

Chapter Eight

* * *

Sam came to and lashed out instinctively at whoever was pulling him away from Dean.

"Whoa there, son. It's all right."

Frank. Sam opened his bleary eyes and ordered them to focus. He rubbed the blood away and after several blinks Frank's worried face swam into view.

"It's all right," Frank said again, "but we need to see to you and your brother."

"Sammy?"

Dean's slurred voice brought Sam more fully awake. "Just hold still, Dean. S'gonna be ok." Sam got up, annoyed that Frank had to help him, and then braced himself with a hand against the wall. He waited for the world to settle and then stood away, noticing that he'd left a bloody handprint behind.

"Now can I call 911?" Martha asked warily.

"No," was all Sam answered. "Is Mort still on your bed?"

"Yes. Why?"

"You have another room?" He wasn't going to put Dean anywhere he couldn't stay with him. He looked down at his brother worriedly, seeing the blood still seeping from the wound in his side.

"Our sons' old room," she offered. "It's small, but-"

"That'll be fine. I need the first aid kit from our car." Sam looked up and found Hope. "Can you get that? It's under the front passenger seat. There should be a plastic bag with some clothes too." They kept it there for emergencies in case they were too dirty to check into a motel or had to abandon their bags somewhere. Hope nodded and ran for the front door.

"Let's get him up," Frank said, moving to Dean's other side.

"Don't touch him." Sam didn't even care that it was closer to a growl than anything else. Dean was his to look after. Frank quickly backed off. Sam bent down and put a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Look at you, man," he whispered, too quietly for anyone else to hear. "It's not even Tuesday."

Dean turned his head and looked up at him owlishly. "Huh?"

"Nothing." Sam put his hand under Dean's arm and hauled him up. They both leaned back against the wall and concentrated on breathing for a minute. "You doing ok?" Sam asked.

"The glass is out," Dean murmured. "So I got that goin' for me… which is nice."

"Yeah, man. Real Cinderella story. You ready?"

"Just do it. Not gonna get any better," Dean said, already bracing himself to move.

Sam pulled Dean's arm across his shoulders and together they staggered behind Martha down the hall and into a small room with two twin beds pushed against the walls with a few feet in between. To a person who'd spent nearly his entire life in motel rooms, it felt oddly like home.

He helped Dean onto the bed closest to the door because he knew Dean would be more comfortable there. Dean Winchester, human shield, even when unconscious. Sam stood up and was immediately dizzy again. He'd lost too much blood and saw that he'd managed to smear even more of it on Dean during the transfer to the bedroom.

"Dude," Dean said without opening his eyes, his voice rough. "Shower first. I'll hold. You're giving me the creeps."

Sam hesitated, looking toward the door where Frank and Martha were hovering and then back to the bed. Dean's mouth quirked up on one side. "Don't worry. I won't let 'em touch me. Where's M- my shotgun? I'll put a round of rock salt in anybody comes near me."

Sam didn't know how his brother did it. Sam had spent close to a year now feeling the crushing burden of responsibility for Dean's safety. Dean had been shouldering that burden since he was a child. Sam had grown up never doubting that his brother would protect him and Dean had. He protected him, first from hunting and the knowledge of what was awaiting them in the dark, then once Sam had known, Dean had still shielded him from as much as he could, acting as an intermediary between him and their father, letting Sam study while Dean went out and came back with bruises or worse. And when Sam was hunting, Dean had protected him with the only thing he had left, his own body. Just one year of feeling the absolute responsibility for Dean's life was about to bring Sam to his knees, wanting to beg for mercy.

Dean cracked open one eye. "Hey, Sam?"

Sam cleared his throat of the sudden constriction there. "Yeah?"

"I'm bleeding and you're thinking. Think we could do something about that?"

"Sure."

* * *

"Thanks, Bobby." Dean flipped the phone closed and let it fall to the bed. They'd gotten a few more details from Martha about Catherine's burial place and then called Bobby. Bobby had a contact in England who had found the grave and done a quick salt and burn just to make sure.

Andy had been taken to the hospital with a concussion, a broken nose and some cracked ribs. He apparently remembered most of what had happened and although confused, had accepted the need to tell the ER staff that he'd been mugged. Frank had arranged for the repairs to the Impala's tires. Mort had finally managed to wake up and despite a monster headache seemed to have escaped his near-death experience relatively unscathed.

The room was dark, but Dean heard Sam stir and roll over on the other bed. A slight gasp seemed loud in the room and Dean momentarily considered turning on the light. "You ok?"

"Shoulder," Sam grunted.

"Those champagne bottles are killers," Dean observed wryly. They were also the reason he'd decided not to turn on the light. It would have required moving and he just wasn't quite ready to do that yet. He'd been stitched up, but movement was still currently his enemy, not to mention that he had about a thousand blankets on him from when he'd started shivering and Sam had started muttering about shock and the need for a hospital.

After Sam had helped Dean to the bedroom, he'd gone into the bathroom across the hall, spent about two minutes in the shower and then reappeared looking deathly pale, dizzy, and once again like he'd been on the wrong end of a badger attack, not that there was a good end of a badger attack.

Sam had ordered the others out of the room with a near snarl, then had very carefully seen to Dean's wounds before mechanically, almost carelessly, seeing after his own.

Sam had said he needed to be more like Dean. But the problem with that was that Dean only worked because he had Sam to temper his hardness. What would become of Sam when he was alone? What would become of him if there was no one to keep him human? The sight of Sam almost agreeing to sacrifice a _virgin_, of all things, was just one of the signs that Sam was in danger of falling.

Dean was going to become a demon. There was no way out of it. What he couldn't tell Sam was that he was afraid the same thing was going to happen to him. One dead, one alive, both losing their ties with humanity.

Truth be told though, Dean was worrying about himself more at the moment. It didn't sit well, worrying about himself more than Sam, but they were so close to the deadline and he was closer to being nearly paralyzed by fear than he'd ever been. He was so freakin' terrified he could barely think, barely function. Not that he could tell that to Sam either.

"Now who's thinking too much?" Sam said quietly.

Dean cleared his throat, but his voice still came out gravelly. "You seem to like it so much, I thought I'd give it a try."

Sam gave the barest chuckle. "Why start now?"

"Never too late to learn," Dean answered. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was too late for everything now. Because once he was dead it was all over. He could only hope the same wasn't true for Sam. Sam _had_ to be able to learn new tricks. He _had_ to be.

* * *

Sam had been lying quietly when he'd heard Dean's breathing change. Sam momentarily thought his brother was in pain, but the sound wasn't right. Sam had spent his entire life, with the exception of Stanford, at Dean's side. No matter how much his brother tried to hide it, Sam knew when Dean was hurting and he knew when Dean was thinking too hard. These days, it was a short list of things that would make Dean's breathing head toward panic mode.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Answer something and don't be flippant."

"I don't know what that means, but I'm too tired to be it, whatever it is."

Sam rolled his eyes though Dean couldn't see it. His brother just loved to play dumb when he didn't want to talk about something. Even when he didn't know what it was. "Means don't be a smartass."

"Well, then I'm _almost_ too tired."

"You wanna go back and see that girl you almost married?"

Dean was silent and Sam wished that he could see his brother's face. He doubted it would tell him much, but Sam had spent years interpreting Dean's "nothing" face. "You go to sleep?"

"What would I say?" Dean said wearily. "Hi. I'm about to kick off. Thought I'd stop by and see how things are going."

"You don't have to tell her any of that. It'd be fine."

Dean gave a chagrined laugh. "Sure. Cause showing up and finding out she has a husband and two kids would be so soothing in my last days."

"It might," Sam replied simply, "to know that she's happy."

"And if she's unhappy?"

"Than we kick whoever's ass is making her unhappy."

There was another long pause where Sam could only wait and listen to his brother's slightly unsteady breathing. "I'll think about it," Dean finally said.

Sam knew it wasn't going to happen. The deadline was almost upon them. The odds of them, either of them, making it through it alive were slim to none. But if, just if, by some miracle they did, then everything would change. They would be together again. Together without this _unbelievable _burden. It was the prize of a lifetime for making it through.

"'Til death do you part."

Sam blinked, trying to figure out Dean's line of thought. "What?"

"Nothin'."

Sam felt like they were kids again, whispering in the dark so they wouldn't wake up their dad. "Tell me."

Dean laughed, a low rumble. "Just… doesn't really seem to apply to our family, does it?"

Sam smiled. Their mom, dad, Dean, him. Their definition of _gone_ was a messy one for sure.

But all that really mattered right now was Dean. And as far as Sam was concerned, even if he couldn't get Dean out of the deal, his brother sure wasn't going to be staying wherever he was taken.

All those years ago, when the nursery was burning, Dean had grabbed Sam and run for safety. This time it was Sam's turn.

Dean was going to Hell. And Sam was going to have to save him from the fire.

* * *

_This brings to an end this quintet of military themed stories (the titles anyway - I do have a nerdy love of title groupings). Hope you enjoyed it. Been a pleasure._


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